


The mission has been compromised

by empires



Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, PWP without Porn, my head is not in the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5481227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason is in the clutches of the enemy. If he could concentrate on something other than his captor, he might just get out alive.</p><p>prompt: red</p>
            </blockquote>





	The mission has been compromised

**Author's Note:**

> Repurposed work hoy!

“I can’t believe this. They sent a kid after me? They just don’t seem to be taking me seriously.” The gun waved lazily then cocked. “Do you take me seriously?”

Jason flinched. He may be young but he was definitely not a kid. He’d been a member of the covert international counter-terrorist organization known as the League for nearly 14 months, not that he was going to reveal that fact. But as a League member, Jason had survival training for all conditions, snow, extreme heat, salt flats, and even oceanic combat. He’d mastered three languages and was currently working on a fourth—Arabic. He could map the trajectory of a projectile missile while parachuting into a six foot deep foxhole and plot the most efficient route from point A to B during rush hour of every major metropolitan city in the world. He could identify twelve toxins by scent, disable a wire matrix using a pen cap, and shoot a hole through a flipped penny from a mile away. You didn’t learn the things he learned or do the things he could and be called a kid. 

On the other hand, the hand waving a gun at Jason while he sat handcuffed to a pole, this is a serious situation and he should probably let the "kid" thing go. Despite arguments to the contrary, Jason understood serious, and he knew that no class, not “Interrogative Diplomacy”, not “Slow Wind, Hot Air: How Tai-Chi Saves Lives”, or “Repartee Pour Deux” could prepare him for how seriously he was taking Richard Grayson in this moment.

Richard “Dick” Grayson had a history that would simultaneously shame of sixty-year-old arms dealers and inspire a trilogy of films that would change the face of modern action films. Or at least a kickass series on Netflix. The cover brief of Grayson’s file said he was a member of the United States Army and had been flagged as a possible League recruit. A deeper dive showed that Grayson did two years of Special Forces work then went AWOL during a failed mission in the Philippines. A year later he emerged from the Cambodian jungles as the right hand of Slade Wilson, one of the most elusive, opportunistic mercenaries in the world. In the past year, Grayson had built his own reputation on a clever mind, mercurial dispensation, and sure aim. No part of the file mentioned that Grayson was at one time the foster son of Bruce Wayne, billionaire industrialist and a founding member of the League. Jason would know. He'd poured over the League case files when he’d heard rumors placing the Grayson in the Southeast and pieced together a picture of who Grayson was and who he had become.

Jason had imagined Grayson as tall and angry boy who lost his way. A jarhead who saw something in the dark jungle and ran to the only thing that made sense at the time. He remembered thinking there must be good wrestling in Grayson’s heart because something positive always happened in the aftermath. There were hospitals built, a school in Cairo, a charity started for girls in Manila. They didn’t excuse his actions, didn’t make things right, but Jason thought the pattern meant something. And if he could find meaning there, maybe he could reach Grayson. It was a naïve thought, one brought on after years of hearing Bruce and Alfred, Jason’s own foster family, speak of this one bright-eyed boy who once brought joy into their lives. He thought it would be simple; find common ground, talk, and then _save_ Grayson by bringing him to the justice and the help he clearly needed. Jason thought he knew what would happen.

Then he met Grayson.

“Ah. Shit.” Jason rocked with the blow like he’d been taught throwing himself back against the metal pipe. No where in that file had it mentioned that Richard Grayson was a stone cold fox. It was a serious problem.

Grayson pressed the butt of his gun against Jason’s split lip. “I asked you a question, kid.”

Jason winced digging his heels and wiggling back from the pressure. When it let up, Jason spat over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“You scared yet?” Grayson smacked his cheek smartly with his one leather glove. His voice said Jason better answer and fast. 

Jason took a deep breath then looked up into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen in his increasingly shortening life. It wasn’t just the color or the shape. It was the passion there, the conviction and power. Jason had never met someone who bested him before, never met someone who made him feel this helpless.

And fuck if that wasn't turning him on.

Dick’s face closed down. “You gonna answer me, kid?”

“I got a name,” said Jason. He bit his lip—rule number one: you don’t have a name—then closed his eyes at the sweet sting of it. 

“But no brains.” Grayson pushed at his head like he was pushing that lesson deeper into Jason's brain. “You’re staring at the barrel of a gun and you want to sass? Cute.” Jason saw the next kick coming and arched just before it hit his ribs and rammed his body back. The cuffs jangled and screeched against the metal. “But stupid. Go ahead then. Tell me your name.”

“Jason,” he gasped. “ _Christ_.”

“Jason Christ. Really?” Jason’s hair was twisted around Dick’s hands and pulled until he was half standing. “You picked the wrong guy to mess with, Jason. Do I look like the kind of guy you want to fuck with?”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Jason panted loudly and scrabbled his boots over the concrete floor. He made more noise when Dick backhanded him. He hoped it covered the ping of a support screw popping loose. “No! No! You look like the kind of guy I want to fuck.”

In retrospect, Jason should have chosen something less compromising to say. It had been the only comment written for his final essay for his Psychology of Wit course that focused on the importance of culture and physical cues. His professor had been kind throughout the class and the in-class banter sessions, but ultimately, he had written, “you would do well to follow your own advice, Mr. Wayne, and think before you speak.” It seemed like that particular trait skipped his generation. Bruce could have entire conversations with nothing but eyebrows and nods. Jason witnessed this at often enough at gala events and posh dinners with dignitaries and humanitarians, many of whom were part of the League. His own parents found love in silent gestures: meals cooked, flowers every two weeks, a hunting rifle, everything done for his wife. Jason had been the noise in their lives banging on every surface, talking to everything that crossed his path from strange ladies in the park to rocks and twigs he fashioned into short bows.

At least he would die an honest man. And he was being honest. Dick wasn’t as tall as he had thought and that was perfect, made him more lean and compact. Full, pink mouth and sharp grin, Jason’s dick was twitching the moment he spied Dick through his binoculars—the intel photos had been grainy and from behind, nothing head on, not even a profile. The ass though, Jason had definitely recognized it the moment Dick stepped out of the Humvee. 

Definitely fuckable.

Judging by the look on Dick’s face, he definitely said that part out loud.

Maybe if Jason actually thought before he spoke, he wouldn't be doubled over Richard Grayson’s fist choking for air. Dick jerked at his shirt hauling him all the way upright. Now they were toe to toe, buckle to buckle, and trading stale Gatorade breath for spearmint and that shouldn’t be so hot. The gun was back suddenly, barrel this time digging into the soft skin under his jaw. Jason shouldn’t find danger so intoxicating or was it the sneer and the way this guy carried himself like he was a badass and didn’t care what anyone thought, certainly not some kid who he was about to make disappear. Some kid he decided to run his hands all over, belly, thighs…. Jason’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“I thought I told them to pat you down. Who are you really, packing heat like this?” Dick muttered and nudged Jason’s thigh with his knee. “Gotta thigh holster?”

“No! I’m just a—” _A college student, photography major traveling for the winter holidays, I didn’t mean to cause any problems. If you just call my folks, please, I just want to go home_ were the words Jason should have said. But he sputtered denials when Dick’s hand dug into the front of his jeans. “Ack!” Jason’s hips skittered back. “No, man. No that’s not. Oh _shit_.”

The gun slipped down to the hollow of Jason’s throat bobbing as he swallowed over and over again. 

“That’s not a gun,” said Dick. He looked up all wide-eyed surprise and Jason thought he saw a little bit of pale pink beneath Dick’s deep tan. Or maybe Jason was boiling inside his pants and the heat was making him see things. Like the way Dick licked his lips and slowly unzipped Jason’s pants to reveal his cherry red briefs. “What the fuck are you made of, kid? Are you part of some super soldier program?”

“’m homegrown.” Jason slurred. He felt dizzy with that leather glove holding him. Squeezing him curiously. 

“And you wanted to fuck me?” _With this monster_ hung in the air between them. Hung.

Jason tried not to laugh at the way Dick’s mouth parted like he was considering the idea and finding it pleasing. Tongue clearly tied. Endorphins, man. They made him reckless. And the guy had to be interested, right? Holding had progressed to curious movements and Jason wasn’t exactly hiding his groans. “Yeah. I mean. I want to go home. But I mean. If.” He tilted his head down and looked at Dick from beneath his sweaty bangs. Dick didn’t look away and Jason just went for it. “There are some things I’d like to do. If you’re not going to let me go.”

Then Grayson released the most devastating weapon in his increasingly diverse interrogation tactics; he smiled. The honest beauty of it took Jason by surprised. He almost missed the twitch in Grayson’s stance. Then his knee was kicked wide and hooked sending him crashing to the ground, long legs spread wide at the knee. A perfect cradle and Jason rocked up once invitingly while he started working on twisting the next screw free with his cuffs.

Grayson dropped the clip of his gun to the ground and kicked it to the opposite corner of the room, then sent his gun skittering to the other. Then he straddled Jason’s legs, warm body sinking into his lap and damn did that feel good. Jason let his tongue run up the bottom climbing down to him, crotch up until he was lapping at that pretty fucking mouth. He shuddered when Dick’s gloved thumb rolled over the head of his cock and pushed.

“What are you? CIA? M-5? Section 36?” Grayson pulled Jason’s free of his pants inch after inch appearing until his cock weighed the Grayson's hand down. Grayson popped his own button free and pulled his dusty shirt over his head. It was like staring at a marble statue, clean, hard, and impossibly real. Jason wanted to push his dick against those gorgeous abs and rut until his brains leaked out all over them.

“Mm,” Jason groan. “College student. But keep touching me like that and I’ll be whatever you want. Jason Bourne? James Bond? Emma Peel. Just. Please.”

“Keep talking like that, kid, and you might never leave.”


End file.
